


Last

by Anonymous



Series: Musketeers Spanking Fics [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aramis can be a bit of a bitch, Aramis is a bit not okay, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Gen, M/M, Spanking, Towards end of season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:37:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: With Rochefort closing in and the threat of discovery looming ever closer, Aramis is spiralling out of control.  And Athos, who has been preaching leniency this time, has had enough.“Consider this,” Athos began, “if you are discovered, we will have to watch you die.  Me.  Porthos.  D’Artagnan.  All of us.  We should not have to watch you try to kill yourself as well.”He had become reckless, he knew.  More so than ever before.  Reckless and a danger to himself and those around him.  It was only through the grace of God, and the intervention of his brothers that he was still living.





	1. Chapter 1

“He's an idiot,” Porthos said suddenly as they passed the house of one of Aramis' previous mistresses on their patrol route one evening, Aramis and d'Artagnan having gone off together also, “but he's never been suicidal like this.”

 “No,” Athos agreed. 

 Even at his lowest, Athos had only barely been able to contemplate such an act; for Aramis and his unshakeable faith such an act of despair would be unimaginable.  Nevertheless, Athos – and Porthos and d'Artagnan – knew all too well that there was a darkness in Aramis that twisted harmless _joie de vivre_ into alarming bouts of carelessness and actual seeking out of suffering.  As a man who has spent half his adult life looking for salvation at the bottom of a bottle, Athos could not help but sympathise. 

 “Something's up.  Something's _happened_.” Porthos went on.  He cast Athos a suspicious look when the older man did not reply.  For a moment, he merely glared as though hoping by that to spur Athos in to speaking.  Finally, he nodded, his jaw a harsh line.  “Right.” His frustration and his hurt were plain to see.  “I forgot – he _talks_ to you.”

Athos frowned.  Porthos made it sound as though Aramis distrusted him, valued Athos' friendship over his own.  He understood Porthos' point of view, even while he thought it a little unfair.  To see Aramis so obviously ensnared by his own cruel conscience pained Porthos deeply – all the more for his own helplessness in stopping it.  Aramis _did_ talk to Porthos...but, perhaps, he _confessed_ to Athos.

 “If it is any consolation,” Athos said quietly, “he did not _tell_ me of this.  He would have taken it to his grave if he could have.”

 “Must be bad, whatever it is.”  Porthos eyed him askance, watching without watching.  “You two ain't been right for months.”

 Athos snorted an approximation of a laugh, albeit there was no humour there. 

 “You could not imagine such idiocy if you tried.  But you are right, I am... conflicted.” 

 He had, for months now, been stuck between wanting to throttle their brother for his stupidity, or take him away to shield him from whatever ugliness came of it.  His mind altered with every breath. 

 “Conflicted?” Porthos repeated flatly.  “You see 'im risking his life – for _nothing_ – an' letting himself get hurt because for some reason he thinks he deserves it, distancing 'imself from us more 'n more each day, and you're ' _conflicted_ '?”

 “It is not my place to interfere.”

 “If not you then who?” Porthos interrupted, stopping in the middle of the street, and blocking Athos' way.  “He won't _talk_ to me, Athos!  He won't _listen,_ and I -” he broke off, face tight with barely contained anguish.

 Athos clasped one hand around the other man's elbow.  How deep Porthos' guilt and despair run to have recognised such tumult in their younger brother and have all attempts to soothe it rebuffed.  And how painful too for Aramis to have his dearest friend stand ready to support him in his grief and be unable to tell him of it lest he endanger Porthos more than he already had.  More suffering.  More crosses for Aramis to bear when he was already fit to collapse.

 “I will talk with him.”

 Porthos nodded, suddenly looking exhausted.  He rubbed one hand over his face.  “Always say he wants a good walloping,” he mumbled with a mirthless laugh.  “Just never thought I'd be the one suggestin' it.”

 “You should not have had to,” Athos admitted, guiltily.  “I have been remiss but I just... I believed he needed time.” 

 He had allowed Aramis' courting danger to go on for too long.  But it seemed to him that Aramis had been through so much recently.  So much had happened so quickly.  No time to recover from one blow before the next one fell: Adele, Marsac, Isabel, - all tragedies that Aramis had felt personally responsible for.  And now the ever-present threat that his treason would be discovered... Little wonder their brother's judgement and self-worth were crumbling under the weight of such a year. But Aramis had seemed to deal with it all so much better and for so much longer than any of them might have expected.   The last year or so had hardly been without its trials for Athos either and Aramis was not the only one for whom ghosts had arisen to destroy the life he had made.  It was the understanding that came with experience that had tempered his ire – God knew, Athos himself had struggled with his own temptations for long enough.  So, perhaps he had been wrong to expect his bother to cope with his treasonous sin alone. But for pity’s sake!  He had simply felt Aramis had earned a little leniency: the opportunity to _try_.  He told Porthos so.

 “Yeah,” the big man agreed with a sigh.  “I know; it’s been rough – for all of us.  But look, I'm not askin' you to break confidences.  Just...whatever it is he's done, it's not worth him tearing 'imself apart over 'stead of askin' us for help.”

 Athos attempted a smile, but failed.

 “Not worth you tearing _your_ self apart neither,” Porthos added with a meaningful look.  “Don't think me an' the whelp 'aven't noticed.”

 “I will talk with him,” Athos repeated, avoiding going any further down that line of conversation.  “I'm certain he will give me reasonable cause in time.”

  

* * *

 

 “Forgive me, Brother,” Athos murmured barely a day later, sounding grim rather than apologetic as he manoeuvred them both into Aramis’ apartment with his hand on Aramis’ elbow, “I should not have allowed it to come to this.”

 Aramis said nothing in reply, too intent on extricating himself from his lieutenant’s grip.  It was not until Athos turned him loose that he found his voice. 

 “You had no right,” he snarled, “no right _at all_ to interfere.”

 “Then forgive me again, but had I not _interfered_ you would be in the Châtelet by now or, more likely, _dead_ in a gutter.” 

 Athos did not raise his voice – a nobleman does not – but his outrage, his complete and utter disbelief at his brother's stupidity sorely tested his restraint.  As indeed it had done for some months now.  Despite Athos’ good manners, Aramis scowled. 

 “I know what you're about, Athos.”

 “I should hope so.”  Athos wondered how much of Aramis' reckless acts could have been avoided if he had only stepped in earlier.  Turning from the door to his brother, Athos raised one brow.  “And are you agreeable to it?”

 Aramis gaped.  “Am I- Am I... _agreeable?_ ” he repeated incredulously, his ire piqued as Athos had expected it would be.

 It was always a delicate matter to offer absolution, and Athos was never entirely certain until he did so how Aramis would respond.  When Athos had timed his confrontation perfectly, when Aramis was only beginning to reflect upon his misdeeds and beginning to suffer the guilt for them then he was indeed agreeable – gracious even – sometimes even willing to listen to reason over punishment.  But there were times – as was the case now – when Aramis had only the illusion of choice, when through his actions or words he had sealed his own fate before Athos even broached the subject.  And Aramis knew it.

 So Athos asked him, allowed just enough indulgence into his tone as to tweak Aramis' pride, enough of a smirk as to say ' _your opinion is irrelevant'_.  And Aramis responded with just enough outrage as to confirm Athos' suspicions – he needed it, needed his brother's discipline and guidance, and the tender care that came with it, but good _God_ , he did not _want_ it.

 “Am I agreeable?” Aramis spat again, his fists clenching at his sides.  “I am _not_!  I do not presume to drag you from your bottle when you are insensible and helpless as an infant though _God_ knows you will never break from that crutch unless _someone_ does.  No! I trust that you know your own mind!  You might grant me the respect of doing the same!  What business is it of yours where and with whom I spend my nights?”

 The words stung as they were intended to, and for a moment gave Athos pause.  The night was not about one act of foolishness or self-destruction, he reminded himself, it was about dozens.  It was always such a thin line – one that Athos trod with the utmost care – between being mindful of his brother's affairs, and interfering in them.  He could not govern Aramis' actions – would never seek that power over another – but he could not ignore the growing carelessness, the lack of forethought that, if unchecked, would eventually get Aramis killed.  In all likelihood, it was going to get them _all_ killed. 

 “It is not your nights nor the company you keep that concerns me,” Athos explained, though that was not strictly true.  “But Treville's position is precarious enough already – he can no longer protect you from the Châtelet when the Red Guard go running to Roquefort about 'the Spanish musketeer' who would duel them in the streets!”

 “I do not ask for _his_ protection – or yours!  And we have always duelled with the Red Guards.”

 “But not five to one, my friend.  Not you alone.”  Athos reached out then, clutched at Aramis' shoulder and shook him roughly.  “You will be killed if this continues, Aramis.  Either by sword, or shot, or at the end of a noose, you will be _killed_.”

 “I wonder...” Aramis began very softly, his gaze suddenly vulnerable as he searched Athos' face for _something_. 

 “You wonder what?”

 Whatever vulnerability was there was lost and Aramis' face turned cold, _resentful_ once more.  “I wonder that you would even _notice_.”

 Realisation hit so swiftly after that that it seemed for a moment that all the air had gone out of the room.  That moment was enough though, for Aramis nodded to himself and turned away – satisfied that his words had found their mark.  Though Athos had been prepared for his brother's spite, he had not expected words obviously meant to wound quite so deeply.  Athos did not think for one single moment that Aramis, even with his propensity for the dramatic, _truly_ believed what he said.  It would have been so easy to have left then, to have accepted the words as truth and abandon Aramis to his own self-pity.  So easy to bite back with cruelty of his own as he had so often done recently.  Aramis was seeking a rise from him – seeking another quarrel, another fight and Athos would oblige him, but not yet. 

 The sentiment behind such a statement... the abandonment, the confusion, the _hurt_ he now perceived in his brother was staggering.  Love for Aramis – ridiculous, foolish, _spiteful_ man that he could be – bloomed warm and unexpected, almost unfamiliar, in his chest.  He began to reach out, intending to soothe the anguish of his rejection with a touch.

 But Athos reconsidered.  It was not his affection that Aramis had been inviting these past months.  It was not his _affection_ that Aramis wanted – _needed_ – from him (though that would come too) but his attention.  His _notice_.  His acknowledgement that Aramis was overwhelmed and drowning in regret and grief and utterly lost.

 It was difficult, whilst labouring under his own guilty conscience, to disregard any thoughts of comforting Aramis and instead turn his mind back to violence and discipline.  And there would be violence, Athos had no doubt of that though he had half a mind to refuse either of them that release.  But no; Aramis was too hopelessly distraught for there not to be, whether they wanted it or not.  They would fight, and Aramis would lose because to emerge triumphant when this was all he had wanted for months was a madness not even Aramis would entertain. 

 “I would notice, Aramis.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Something snapped within Aramis at Athos' utter stolidity.  The anger and fear of the last few months exploded within him until he could hardly see, so utterly _betrayed_ did he feel.  How dare he.  How _dare_ he!

 Athos' lips pulled upwards slightly and he nodded, widening his stance as though readying for an attack.

 “It's all right.”  He gestured Aramis to engage.  “Come.”

 He tackled Athos.  His friend giving a satisfying ' _ooph_!' of surprise as Aramis' shoulder collided with his stomach and took him to the floor.  They scrabbled together for several moments, Aramis' movements unplanned and undisciplined, only succeeding in overcoming Athos by the speed behind them.  Even under ordinary circumstances, they were fairly evenly matched and despite his frenzy Aramis won several bouts, overpowering Athos several times by sheer force and not skill.  But Athos was familiar with him, knew how to block or where to press to stop him in his tracks and his advantage did not last long.  He soon found himself pinned beneath Athos, and no amount of desperate, undignified wriggling dislodged the older man. 

 He lashed out blindly with one arm only for it to be easily caught in Athos' grip and used to flip him onto his stomach, his face to the floorboards and Athos' knee pressed painfully into his back.

 “Aramis,” Athos' voice sounded in his ear.  “Fight me if you must, but not like this.  Calm down.”

 The order did nothing to soothe his determination to- to what?  Flee?  Hurt him?  His stomach turned at the thought.  Still, he bucked and struggled against his friend’s grip.   He did not have time to contemplate though before Athos hauled him to his feet and slammed him against a wall, holding him there with one forearm across his throat.

 “Aramis,” Athos repeated quietly, keeping Aramis in place with inexplicable ease.  “Listen to me.  You are overwrought, and too frantic.  You are a musketeer.  _Control_ yourself.”

 “Let go!” Aramis yelled hoarsely instead, straining against Athos but to no avail.  In an even fight, he could dislodge him.  Here however, his limbs felt like lead, though some madness compelled him to keep struggling while it was clearly hopeless.  He could not understand the sudden desire to inflict _pain_ upon Athos – his friend, once his brother.  The thought brought a burning to his eyes and he redoubled his efforts.  “Athos, please!”

 With a harsh sigh, Athos yanked him forwards and, taking advantage of Aramis' stumbling, pushed him back against the wall – none too gently – this time facing it.  Several breathtakingly hard smacks landed across the seat of his breeches and again he wrestled against his captor.  Athos pulled his arm upwards, high up his back until his shoulder burned and he loosed a sob of sheer frustration.

 “Aramis.”  Athos' breath was hot against his back, his voice infuriatingly calm in stark contrast to Aramis’ frenzy.  “Please.  Calm down.”

 Aramis heaved fitfully as if he had run for miles, each breath sapping him of valuable strength.  It took a long while, but eventually Aramis felt his limbs melt, his head suddenly too heavy even to lift.  Athos felt it too, he knew, because ever so slowly the other man released and lowered Aramis' sore arm. 

 “Hush, René,” Athos said at his back, still inches away from him.  “We have all night.”

 “ _Athos_.”

 A pause, then, “No.  Just be still now.”

 And then Athos was gone from him, away to God only knew where and Aramis would have turned, would have followed but… but Athos had told him to stay.  To be quiet.  To be still. 

 But this was cruel!  He wasn’t made for silent, lonely contemplations – his time spent in the seminary as a boy had proven that.  It was madness.  He couldn’t!  Athos couldn’t ask this of him. 

 His eyes burned, his cheeks cool and damp with the occasional helpless, frustrated, _furious_ tear.  He had become reckless, he knew.  More so than ever before.  Reckless and a danger to himself and those around him.  He had always been a libertine, yes, but never cruel, never felt the need to glory in his conquests as he did now.  To be caught had never been a part of his plans; the sneaking from chambers, the hanging from windowsills had always been part of his enjoyment – never the confrontations.  He knew it was only through the grace of God, and the intervention of his brothers that he was still living.

 The others did not understand – could not understand, perhaps – how his actions weighed on him even as he repeated them again and _again_.  He was such a fool.

 Athos knew though.  Had always known how Aramis' wits escaped him as he yearned for grace but instead fell ever further from it.  But Athos, it seemed, had quite given up on him even now.  He wanted to scream with the helplessness of it all.  There was no release for him now.  He could not confess – could not sit in the confessional and admit treason – could not even profess contrition.  He did not regret, was not contrite.  It had pleased God that a son – _his son_ – be born from their sin and how could he, Aramis, _regret_ that?  But he was not at peace with it either.  He loved her, God help him he loved her still, and loved the child they had made together.  The child who would never, could never know him. 

Hopelessness and exhaustion weighed on him, and he sighed out.  With one hand, he reached up and dashed the dampness from his face. 

 He was out of control. Detached. Restless with his own stupidity and only himself to blame.  He was _exhausted._ Was growing weary of soldiering but too afraid – too damnably hedonistic – to yet seek to return to life in a seminary.  He felt his restlessness like a fever, and it was _killing_ him.

 Suddenly, where there had been the beginnings of surrender, of acceptance, he felt his frustration building once more.  Mounting and mounting, suffocating him, and it was too much.  Athos couldn’t force him to do this, he couldn’t!

 …He couldn’t.

 The realisation hit like a physical force, his troubled thoughts calming as quickly as they had started. 

Athos could not _force_ him to stand there.  He could _order_ , yes, but the only thing holding Aramis there was Aramis.  He could leave whenever he wanted.

 But he wasn’t moving.  It was more though than mere deference to Athos.

  _Just be still now._

 That was it.  All that Athos required of him – all that _anybody_ required of him – was that he merely stand and be still.  No orders, no machinations, no constantly wondering if this was it – the day he was discovered.

 Just _be_. 

 His lungs expanded suddenly, opening up until he was gasping, giddy with it.  He almost wanted to laugh it was so ludicrous.  The world beyond required things of him – things that exhausted him, hurt him, _frightened_ him.  But here, in this place, all that was required was this. 

 Be quiet.  Be still.  Breathe.

 He sensed movement to his left, just beyond his line of sight and he glanced that way to see Athos pushing off from where he had been leaning against the wall, watching him.  Not gone away then.  Not really.  Not this time.  Aramis flushed, feeling just a little bit ridiculous.

 “Better?” Athos asked, his brows just slightly raised in query.  He unfolded his arms as he approached, laid one hand warm upon Aramis’ shoulder.  Not squeezing, just…there.

 “I-” He broke off, not sure what to say but needing to say _something_.  He wanted to share his revelation with his friend, but he found himself saying something rather nonsensical.  “It’s very quiet.”

 Athos’ brows climbed higher, then dropped, frowning delicately.  Aramis couldn’t blame him.  Even to his own ears he sounded addled.  Then, quite suddenly, the older man’s face cleared, something of a smile playing around his lips.  Athos’ hand moved across his shoulders firmly, thumbing over his rapidly calming pulse point.

 “Good.”

 And then he left again.  Well, not _left_ per se.  Aramis could still feel him in the room behind him, soft footfalls and measured breaths sounding soothing.  Familiar.  But he wasn’t so close now and while some small part of Aramis – the part that had missed Athos, his steadfastness and acerbic wit - yearned again for his closeness, the larger part of him was content now to do as he was told.  To trust in Athos’ judgment as he always had in the past.

 Be quiet.  Be still.  Breathe.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“All right, Aramis,” Athos said, some indeterminable time later.  Aramis had calmed so completely since the last bell that he was almost loathe to disturb him.  But there were matters yet to be discussed, and at last – _finally_ – it seemed Aramis had reached a state wherein he could hear them.

All the fight seemed to have gone out of his brother now, his slumped shoulders and forehead resting against the cool wall speaking volumes about his exhaustion but, Athos hoped, his peace also.  He wanted it done, over with, and Aramis at his most resentful – as he had been when they had entered – was stubborn as mule.  That, coupled with Aramis’ ravaged conscience, would have seen Athos beat him into unconsciousness if he had been of a mind to.  But he would hear him now, Athos thought, _feel_ him.

It was the work of but a few seconds to situate Aramis, to have him held close and safe beneath one arm, bared and trembling.  As keyed up as his brother was, Athos considered immobilising him – trapping him beneath one leg and binding his hands as he had done several times in the past until his only movement was what Athos allowed him, but it seemed an unnecessary cruelty at a time when Aramis was clearly grasping for any semblance of control at all. 

He started out hard.  With his reserves depleted – their fight and his long, _long_ time spent in contemplation having exhausted him – Aramis had few defences left to fall back upon and Athos neither expected or desired him to last long.  He continued for a little though, Aramis’ skin reddening surprisingly quickly beneath his hand though Aramis bore his strikes with admirable poise. 

 It was not until Athos decreased his strength, allowed time in between for Aramis to draw breath, that he received any reaction whatsoever.  His under cheeks no doubt throbbing from Athos’ ‘attention getting’ smacks, Aramis groaned as Athos began to lay slap after slap on top of one another first on one cheek then the other.  Less than halfway through by Athos’ reckoning, with his skin rosy but by no means red, Aramis threw his hand back.  Athos sighed.  He took the younger’s hand, held it tight even as he continued to paint his frustration and guilt and impotent _anger_ across Aramis’ skin.

 He had calmed in the past hour or so, just as Aramis had (finally).  And seeing that peace descend had affected him also.  ‘ _It’s quiet’_ Aramis had said.  And it was.  No more voice in his head screaming out to just protect him, keep him away from temptation, away from her, away from Rochefort’s suspicions, and can’t _believe_ you did this, how could you _do_ this, _I can’t believe you slept with the queen!_

Just quiet.  Quiet and the realisation that it didn’t matter anymore.  Rochefort had found his way into the king’s confidences, had pushed Treville even further from Louis, and now it seemed inevitable in a way it had not seemed before, that he would discover the queen’s infidelity – Aramis’ treason.  Athos knew that.  And so did Aramis.

 Aramis could try but there was no return from what they had done. 

It made sense then, in an Aramis sort of way, to court death and danger in whatever fashion he could while he still could.  Better a knife in a darkened alley than to be broken across the wheel or whatever else Rochefort would surely devise.   

An easier death, certainly, but a death nonetheless.  If Aramis intended to die he could at least have the courtesy to delay it as long as possible. 

 “This stops now, Aramis.”  Athos paused, resting his hand against the damp curve of his brother’s back.  “I _will not_ bury another brother too weak to resist his own selfish impulses.”

 Aramis’ breath caught, no doubt shocked to hear mention of the brother Athos had kept hidden for so long.  He nodded. 

 “Your fate is already imminent, my friend,” Athos murmured, rubbing at the tightness of Aramis’ shoulders now.  “There is no need for this rushing forth to meet it.”

 “Not.”  Aramis shook his head agitatedly.  “I’m _not_.  Athos, I swear – I _swear_ , I…”

 “You…what?” 

 Aramis did not answer right away though he seemed to start several times.  Athos waited, did not begin again just yet, allowed Aramis to come to the same difficult realisation that he himself had. 

 “I just...” Aramis began at last, breathless with it.  “I just want it to be _over_.”

The tears began quickly after that, far quicker than Athos had expected.  As Athos began once more to snap his hand down across Aramis’ reddened backside his crying crescendoed from soft, subconscious weeping to the same helpless, breathless sobbing that usually burst from him during only his most severe chastisements. 

 Athos understood.  For a man such as Aramis, whose faith was stronger than any other Athos had met, to hear his own self-destruction laid out so plainly must have been shattering.  And so, because regardless of his actions Aramis was yet Athos’ brother and so desperately _sorry_ , it was neither a long nor particularly hard punishment.  In truth though he doubted Aramis noticed, most of his strikes had been careful – more noise than actual impact.  Part of Athos worried that such a lack of severity would imply a lack of care.  But a larger part of him – the part that knew Aramis, knew the relief he took from simply submitting to this regardless of how much pain Athos inflicted – understood his motives all too well and could not condemn him for it.  He could not help it, Athos knew.  Whatever desperate, reckless beast had taken hold of him the last few months had driven him to risk himself the way he had.  He had not done so out of spite, or a desire to hurt or frighten his brothers. 

He was grieving, miserable and frightened – hurt that his only confidante in this matter seemed to have been pulling away.  Athos would not force an apology from him, not for this, not for the woman and child he so adored, or the reckless acts of a desperate man. 

 But he could perhaps halt the course of Aramis’ self-destruction.  He had done so once before when they were barely friends let alone brothers.  He could do so again now.

 “Consider this,” he began, summoning sternness as Aramis shook with the gravity of it all, “if you are discovered, we will have to watch you _die_.  Me.  Porthos.  D’Artagnan.  Treville.  Constance.  All of us.  We should not have to watch you try to kill yourself as well.”

 A moment of silence then to think on that was all that was needed it seemed.  With a great shudder, Aramis collapsed.

 “I’m sorry.  God, A-thos, ‘m _sorry_.”

 The whispered apology that Athos had not dared to expect was sign enough to stop.  He was _sorry_.  He didn’t _want_ to die, and thank God – _thank God_ – for that.  Unseen by his brother, Athos bowed his head. 

 It was right to be gentle now, after Aramis had come apart so entirely beneath his hand, and Athos basked in that role more even than usual.  He stroked one hand down the length of his friend’s spine.  It served no purpose today to leave Aramis to soothe his own upset with only Athos’ distant presence to comfort him; he wouldn’t be able to, not today and moreover, Athos didn’t _want_ him to.  With that in mind, he pushed the younger man until they could both stand, steadying him with one hand while the other went around Aramis’ neck and drew him in close.

 With Aramis’ face buried in his hands as he fought for control over himself, Athos was assaulted quite suddenly by the memory of first time he had done this – _truly_ done this, offered more than just the discipline of a commanding officer.  They were different men now, Aramis just slightly older now than Athos had been then.  Athos didn’t murmur the same childish platitudes that he had done – endless assurances that ‘ _it will be all_ _right’_ and ‘ _it’s over now, forgiven’_ – but Aramis unfolded at last to return Athos’ embrace with trembling arms.  

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Would you think me a depraved thing if I said that I have missed this?” 

“I have always thought you depraved.”  Lying outstretched upon the bed, with Aramis’ hair tickling his throat where he lay beside him, Athos felt Aramis smile and found himself doing the same.  “But I shall endeavour to berate you more frequently henceforth.”

 “Do.”  Aramis murmured, rubbing his cheek against Athos' shoulder with a sigh.  “Nothing is right with the world while you and I are at odds.”

On that point they wholeheartedly agreed.  “We are always at odds, Aramis.”

 “Not like this.  I began to think I had lost you...and I couldn't bear it.”

 “Aramis-”

 “Please, let me speak.”  Aramis pushed himself upright with a grimace, and sat staring at Athos.  “What I have done, what may happen because of _me –_ you are not a part of it, our brothers are not a part of it.  It is _mine_ to face.”

 “I… I pray daily that you will never have to do so,” Athos admitted hesitantly, his eyes serious.  “Though God has never answered my prayers before.  Perhaps you will be my first.  You are, as you are so fond of telling me, his favourite.”

 Aramis snorted derisively.  “As _Lucifer_ once was.  Were it not for his pride, his _arrogance-_ ”

 “Yes, I have long suspected you to be the devil incarnate.”

 They were silent for a moment, thinking, when suddenly Aramis escaped a slightly hysterical laugh that he stifled with one hand across his mouth.  

 “God, some days I think I will go mad, and scream it out at Court just to bring an end to this!”  He was stiff and trembling as Athos reached out a hand to him.  He made a hopeless little sound, one that pulled at Athos.  “I am not strong enough, Athos.  The weight of this is... I am- I'm _afraid_.” 

 “As am I,” Athos admitted, pushing the hair back from his brother's face.  “But you will find the strength.  For them, for us, for _France_.  You did this, Aramis.  You and- and _Her_.  So you will find it because you _must_.  But you are not alone.  Have you not always said that we are stronger together?”

 Aramis pondered that, sinking slowly back against Athos with all the wherewithal of a sleepy child.  Athos squeezed him close, comforted by the familiar form against his, and the solid, warm, _aliveness_ that was Aramis.  And then he sighed, rippling his friend’s curls with his breath.

 The weight of their situation was crippling.  Together had never meant the two of them but four, and Athos did not think he alone had strength enough for it, not to bear Aramis up if he faltered.  And Athos found himself wondering fearfully whether he would truly be willing to sacrifice their friends’ innocence in this – offer d'Artagnan, so young and miraculously untainted by his friends' pasts – in the hope that between them they would have strength enough to save Aramis. 

 Or whether, much as he adored him, for their sake and his own he would simply step aside and let Aramis fall.

 Aramis' fingers traced lines across his shirt, his head resting over Athos' heart as he spoke.  “I believe I could endure all the torments Rochefort will surely have in store as long as I had their safety, and my brothers' love to comfort me.” 

 Nothing could have taken Athos apart more completely. 

 “You have one of those things, at least.”  He pressed his lips to Aramis' forehead, a benediction, a vow, and realisation that he would move Heaven and Earth, endure any torment, fight the Devil himself if only Aramis could be spared whatever tortures Rochefort’s crazed mind conceived. 

 

* * *

 

Athos spent a long, sleepless, sober night guarding Aramis' sleep as most precious above all else.  He deserved such coddling, such unbecoming indulgence, Athos reasoned.  Not because they may never again have such a chance (though that was a large part of it), and _certainly_ not because he had earned it, but simply because he was _Aramis_.  And for the past six years, that had been enough.  Athos watched the dawn break by the shadows on his friend's form, his tired mind mesmerised by the steady rise and fall, the soft snoring that had lulled him into sleep so many times before.   It was such sweet agony that Aramis still found such comfort in his presence that he slept on, heedless to the world coming alive around them.

When at last Aramis began to wake – amidst the tolling of seven bells – Athos let him slip from his arms without a word, though the loss left him bereft, freezing in his chest and stinging his tired eyes.  Aramis dressed in silence, his back to Athos as though ashamed.  Dear God, would the splintering of Athos' world never cease? 

“Aramis.” He reached out and turned the younger man around with one hand on his shoulder.  Aramis came obediently, but his eyes remained downcast.  Athos allowed his hand to drop.  “When the time comes, we will tell them,” Athos announced, his voice far clearer and firmer than he would have thought possible.  “We will tell our brothers, and they will _help_.”

 At his words, Aramis' eyes shot upwards towards his face and he gazed horror-struck, the word 'no' barely a breath on his lips.  “They will not understand!”

 “And yet,” Athos said, taking Aramis by the shoulders, “they will help us nonetheless – love you nonetheless.”

 Aramis' eyes, still bearing the lingering trace of such harsh tears the previous night, began to shine once more and he raised one hand to dash at them frustratedly. 

 “You would endanger them – our _brothers_ , Athos! – involve them in- in treason for my sake?” he demanded.

 “Yes,” Athos replied simply.  “And Treville too.” 

 “No!”  Aramis' reaction was immediate, his esteem for Treville, the place the man held in Aramis' heart making Athos' decision all the more mortifying.  “Athos, please.”

 “We stand a better chance if they know-”

 “A better chance of what?”  Aramis wrenched himself away, his face so pale the darkness around his eyes looked like bruises.  “If I am discovered, then that is the end of it!  Of- of everything!  Why must they know the truth of it?”

 “Because I will not lie to them a moment longer than necessary to preserve an _image_ of you!  You would rather have Treville – have _Porthos –_ think you go to the Châtelet, the _wheel_ , an innocent man?”  His words were harsh, frustrated by what at its centre was Aramis’ pride.   It was one thing to keep it from their friends for as long as possible, but to continue to lie once the truth threatened...  Aramis would simply have to weather the humiliation.  That, at least, he deserved.  “It would destroy them, Aramis!”

Aramis looked resigned, _broken_ , but eventually nodded.  When Athos laid his hands upon him again, the younger man did not pull away. 

 “I would protect you,” he continued haltingly, the words not coming easily however fervently they were felt, “with my dying breath, you must know this by now.  But, Aramis-” he raised his hands to his friend's face, lifted it until Aramis could see his guilt and his anguish in his eyes, “- _brother_ , please understand me: I cannot stop this _alone_.”

 Aramis' eyes widened at that, as though the thought that Athos too was _alone_ in his predicament had not truly crossed his mind.  He raised his hands to grip at Athos’ wrists, tipped forwards until their foreheads rested against one another.

 “If you- _when_ you are taken to the Châtelet,” Athos said, determined to face the reality of the situation, “we will need allies, we will need a plan, and that cannot be executed with just two.”

 “A poor choice of words, my friend.”  Aramis smiled, though it was more of a grimace.

 “ _Aramis_.”

 Aramis breathed deeply for a moment, released it in a drawn-out sigh.  “All right,” he said, and seemed to stand straighter for it as though the decision – dread-worthy as it was – had relieved some of the weight from his shoulders.  “When the time comes... I will tell them what I have done.  And pray God they forgive me for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) Comments always welcome.


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